Page 123 of Ulune's Daughter

“Bleh. Stuffy extended family.” Aine blinks up at me pleadingly, which lacks impact because she’s only an inch or two shorter than I am. “Save me? Take me with you?”

I pat her shoulder and step clear of her octopus embrace. “I’m sure the food will be good. Try to enjoy that at least. I’ll see what I can do about a souvenir.”

“High end makeup, perfume, and anything I can accessorize with my Wydlins uniform are most appreciated,” she says, tucking herself to her brother’s side. He looks down at her, bemused.

“How are these souvenirs?” I ask.

“Fancy ski resorts have fancy gift shops,” she replies, her grin returning.

“I’m sure they do, but I’m going to my friend’s house on Prospect Mountain. Unless you’re happy with a T-shirt that says, ‘Vermont is for skiing’ or some maple syrup, you may be out of luck.”

Aine wrinkles her nose and looks up at her brother. “Lame.”

He chuckles. “If I promise you a shopping trip—ashortshopping trip, no more than an hour—while Kellan’s gone, will that appease you, pest?”

“Can we take my friend Hayley? Ooo, and the Lambo. Can we take the Lambo?”

I hold up my hands. This conversation just became too expensive for me. And yes, I can easily guess that Lawson’s family is ridiculously wealthy. Most ruling fae are. But I’m not at all comfortable being reminded of it.

Leaving Lawson to argue the merits of taking the Lambo versus the BMW—ugh—I slip out the double doors. They open to the outside, in a rush of fresh Air that fills my lungs and leaves me smiling. I step out onto a wide, wooden porch that leads into a small garden. The last leaves on a hedge framing the garden twirl like butterflies in the cold breeze. The hedge holds back a dark wood, dominated by pines. I step off the porch and look back at the house.

House, ha. Cait House is the house that swallowed a half-dozen houses. It’s a mansion: gray stone embraced by ivy; huge, arched windows over at least three stories and an attic, defined by big dormers. A greenhouse, the wavy glass glinting gold in the setting sun’s last rays, stretches to my left. The greenhouse alone is the size of my house. And to my right, a separate, one-story building that’s probably a garage.

Housing the Lambo.

Ugh.

I shouldn’t begrudge anyone their money. It might be honestly earned. It’s just that years of watching my parents make hard choices at holidays and birthdays, of being teased over my lack of designer clothes, of watching my peers who come from the “right” families get opportunities they didn’t earn, of digs in places where people no different than me live without enough food, clean water, heat, education, and, those first two years out on the Island, having to make my own hard choices—they’ve left their mark.

Reconciling how I feel about Lawson’s family money and how I feel about the man himself is a task for another day. I lift my free hand and begin to trace the glyphs to open the Fae Ways.

My claw pokes a hole in the aether. A beam of sunlight, filtered through the World Wood’s green leaves, glimmers between my claws. I pick at the aether, tearing a bigger hole, through which I can see a grassy field, dotted with the white fluffs of piskie sheep. A burbling stream runs along the edge of their pasture. In the distance, the stone spires of the Court of Cold Mist rise against a sky shading to twilight. The court’s half-tucked behind a hill. The windows of it, a few still lacking panes of glass, wink at me like someone glancing over their shoulder. I have the sense that I’d be welcome if I approached, but there’s no silent demand, none of the unbearable, unheard cry that kept me mesmerized for days.

I draw my claws down through the Air until there’s a rent wide and long enough for me to step through. I walk barefoot through the stream, trailing my suitcase, only feeling a welcome coolness tickle my toes. Nothing splashes up my legs. My soles don’t touch the mossy, rocky bottom. At the far edge of the field, my own gazebo sits on the riverbank, among the oaks and spruce, looking both strangely out of place and an integral part of the scenery. A flight of will-o-wisps circle the gazebo dizzily, beckoning me.

I follow them out into my yard and stand looking up at my house as the trunks and branches of the World Wood fade into its familiar beams and slats.

As I walk up my back steps, I have the sense that Faery just gave me a pass. It could have drawn me back to the Court of Cold Mist. It could have trapped me until I finished what I started. Instead, it flirted with me, showed me that it’s not the tomb I remember, and eased me back into the mortal world painlessly.

That could have gone much, much worse.

There’s no raven on my porch. No cat waiting with his tail impatiently flicking on my steps or in my kitchen. I call for Whitey in case he’s hiding somewhere, although he almost always comes as soon as he hears me, but he doesn’t appear. I checked my phone for messages when Lawson gave it to me. There was nothing from Jane or Carrie telling me Whitey was pining without me. They’re probably spoiling him rotten. Well, rottener.

My apartment’s cold and dim. There’s a distinct scent in the still air. Not my trash can. Or the lingering smells of baking. This is the acrid whiff of dead flowers.

Except that I don’t keep any plants in the house.

The smell’s coming from my lab. Where the cup of Sulis Minerva still sits in my auraspectrometer.

I don’t follow the scent. I march into my bedroom and open the luggage, finding it full of beautiful clothes in a dark rainbow of colors. There are several sets of lingerie, in satin and lace—definitely nothing that looks like “period panties.” There are even two kinds of socks: warm and woolly for skiing, lighter and cottony for après ski.

I make a mental note to thank Allie’s “handmaiden.” She’s thought of everything.

I pack a few pairs of shoes and my ski boots. I’m not a great skier, and I’m much better at cross-country than I am at downhill. But unless Rhodes wants to hit the black diamond slopes, I figure I won’t disgrace myself.

Teddy’s husband Darwin used to ski competitively and they keep plenty of skis and poles and things at the lodge, so I don’t pack any other equipment. Instead, I head into the bathroom and gather my toiletries. Allie’s handmaiden has provided the basics, but I make my own moisturizer, body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. I pack those and my favorite lipstick, in case Rhodes wants to go out for something fancier than deep dish.

As I pack, I have a sense of finality. That I’m not coming back. Not to live here at any rate. I push that feeling away hard. This is my home, bought with my own money, which I earned with my own sweat, sleepless nights, and not a little of my blood. Lawson may be my haven, but this is still my home.

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